


Looking Down for the Love of Me

by Wife_of_Bath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Broken Promises, Cannabalistic Mermen, Cannibalism, Hickey Being Hickey, Irving being Irving, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Transformation, alternative universe, merman au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wife_of_Bath/pseuds/Wife_of_Bath
Summary: Bored and alone, William Gibson's life takes an unexpected turn when he meets a merman on the rocks.  But falling in love requires sacrifice.Written for Halloween Terrorfest Day Five: You found me beautiful once





	Looking Down for the Love of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Alfred Tennyson's "The Mermaid". The idea for this came rather last minute, so I quickly hammered this out. Any weird mistakes are my fault entirely. I owe a lot of this to Wilde's "The Fisherman and his Soul".

Twice a week, William Gibson left his little cottage, walked the coastal path to the lighthouse, delivered food and picked up anything needing mending or repairing from the two men who lived there, and returned home. It was a monotonous, mundane existence, but it allowed Gibson’s mind to wander during the mindless tasks and gave him enough to live alone. Some would call his current existence a waste; he had been a sailor, and to a starry-eyed girl, he could be a very attractive prospect as a husband: a hero who had been to furthest China and Africa and fought slavers in daring sea battles. Gibson hated that. He hated the way the newspaper spun tales about bravery and heroism, always ignoring the chaos of battle, the gunpowder smoke, the blood, the men’s screams, the disease. Mr. Little and Mr. Hodgson understood; they had been veterans as well and had shared experiences, although Gibson had only served under Hodgson. Their meetings were mercifully brief. Little was taciturn and spoke rarely. In the years Gibson had known him, he could not remember a smile ever crossing Little’s solemn face. Hodgson was friendlier, while still maintaining the familiar distance between officer and seaman they had known. He chatted about the weather, any unusual sights on the horizon, and most of all, the pianist’s daughter he had been courting. Gibson listened with only one ear, letting Hodgson’s words flow by without much thought. He suspected that Hodgson relished his visits, if only because it gave the former lieutenant someone other than Little to talk to.

He was rambling again while piling shirts and trousers in Gibson’s basket. “Last night, as we were looking out, I noticed something break the surface. Edward was certain that it was a dolphin or a whale, but it is the wrong season for them to come so close to land. He will deny it, but the light caught the creature’s eyes, and I know they were human.” He added one more shirt that had lost its buttons to the bundle. “When I was a midshipman, I heard about a whaler who went down not two days after they left port. It was a clear morning when the captain spotted a mermaid on the rocks, and a storm arose that afternoon without warning. It sank, with only five of the crew making it out alive. There were no sharks around, but they swore they saw blood in the water.” Gibson nodded absently, eager for Hodgson’s prattle to end so he could get home before nightfall. Mercifully, Hodgson sensed the late hour and wished Gibson a safe walk.

The waves were churning as Gibson walked home. He paused to look at the horizon. Most sailors loved the sea, but it always filled Gibson with a mixture of elation and terror. Strange, but as a steward, he had spent more time below decks than above. The endless expanse, stretching as far as he can see, with the knowledge that below the surface lurked great and terrible things reminded him of how very insignificant he was in this wide world. If he walked into the sea, nothing would change, no one would know. But the sea would swallow him up, and there he would remain.

He turned to continue on his way when the hairs stood up on his neck. He had the sensation of being watched, but there was no one behind him on the path. He glanced around but saw nothing. A bit of movement in the water caught his attention. He spotted a pair of eyes watching him from behind the rocks. It was far too cold for anyone to be swimming. Briefly, Gibson thought of Hodgson’s story. He dropped the basket and waded in, the water chilling his feet and ankles to the bone. The eyes disappeared, but Gibson continued. He climbed onto the rock and peered down. A man looked up at him, his wet hair pulled behind his ears. Although the color of his hair was hard to determine, his beard was red. His eyes were large, blue-green, and Gibson found himself wholly enchanted. He leaned down. The man’s eyes widened. He let out a harsh, animalistic hiss and splashed Gibson in the face.

The water stung Gibson’s eyes, but when he wiped it away, the man, no the creature was still there. Gibson could see the fins, blue-green like the merman’s eyes, hovering above the surface. To his surprise, the merman had not tried to swim away. Instead, he floated just a couple of feet away, close enough to look at but too far to reach and touch.

“What was that for?” Gibson asked. He hesitated. “Can you understand me?”

“Of course I can understand you,” the merman replied. “I didn’t know what you were going to do.”

“To be honest, I don’t know either.” He supposed he had just wanted to get a better look, but a part of him wondered if he had been trying to kiss the merman. He realized that he would very much like to kiss him, even though they had only just spoken, and neither knew the other’s names. But the rules of human courtship seemed nonsensical and superfluous when faced with such a pretty thing from beneath the depths.

“Do you do that a lot?” the merman asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Do what?”

“Do things without knowing why?”

Gibson shrugged. “Only very recently.”

The merman smiled, showing off his sharp teeth, and Gibson’s heart skipped a beat.

*

The visits to the shore grew more frequent, even when Gibson did not have to go tend the men in the lighthouse. After a while, the merman felt comfortable enough to join Gibson on the rock. He must have noticed how Gibson marveled at him, for he smiled so wide that the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth, and he seemed to enjoy flopping his tail around. Gibson longed to run his fingers along the scales, but he had not worked up the courage to touch him. Instead, he stretched out beside the merman, his bare feet dangling just a few inches from the water, and tried to ignore how sitting on the rock for such extended times made his hips and knees ache. The pain was worth it, though. The merman had such an easy way about him, and he made Gibson laugh. It had been so long since Gibson had smiled and not felt like he was simply pulling his lips back.

“What’s your name?” he asked one afternoon. 

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, Billy.” Gibson loved how musical his name sounded when the merman said it.

“I’ll try. I need something to call you.”

The merman shrugged. What followed was an indescribable series of clicks, hums, and hisses that sounded strangely to Gibson like the letters “e” and “c”.

“E.C.,” he said. “I’ll call you E.C.”

E.C. reached over to touch Gibson’s hair. “I like that.”

*

E.C. was incorrigibly curious about life on land. He peppered Gibson with questions about his clothes, his food, his house, his life before coming to the seaside town, human customs like birthdays, weddings, and funerals. Eventually, Gibson began bringing little things to show him, at first only to illustrate his stories, then as gifts when he saw the way E.C.’s eyes lit up when Gibson brought something new. Food was oddly entertaining to watch E.C.’s reactions. Chocolate he liked. Cheese was all right. He hissed and threw away the biscuits Gibson had made to show him some of the ship’s rations. Tobacco was an unexpected delight.

“On board, I always used a pipe,” Gibson explained as he rolled a cigarette. “But on land, I prefer these.”

“May I try?” Gibson watched as E.C. rolled a bit of tobacco in the slip of paper. He took a deep inhale, his eyebrows shooting up, but he did not cough like most first-time smokers. He held it expertly between his fingers as if he had been smoking all his life and gave it an appraising stare.

“It makes me warm inside. That’s a new feeling,” he remarked. He passed the cigarette to Gibson, who took a long draft, trying not to think of how E.C.’s lips had been on the thing just a moment prior.

“You like it?” E.C. nodded.

“You’re so good to me, Billy. What is it you’re after?”

Gibson shook his head, almost offended at the question. There was nothing he could ask for from E.C. Just being around him was enough. He supposed that for every question E.C. asked about life on land, he could ask about the water, but Gibson found he cared very little about what was below. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t need anything.”

E.C. shifted closer. He was very near, so much so that their noses brushed against each other. He smelled of smoke and fish and the sea. “Everyone needs something, Billy.”

Gibson threaded his fingers through E.C.’s hair. It was almost completely dry now. He tugged a strand away from his ear so that it lay curled against his cheek. “You’re right,” he whispered and closed the distance between them. E.C. held still for a moment before he opened up completely for Gibson, drawing him in and letting Gibson run his tongue along E.C.’s pointed teeth. His mouth tasted of salt.

*

Pastor Irving’s church was small with white-washed walls covered with paintings the preacher had done himself. If it seemed a little egotistical for him to decorate his own parish with the fruits of his labor, Pastor Irving was skilled with a paintbrush, and the watercolors were good. He tried and meant well at least, and Gibson figured that was all one could ask from a preacher.

“Hello, Mr. Gibson,” he greeted, putting down his pen as Gibson entered the little office. The beginnings of a sermon were roughly outlined on a scrap of paper. “It has been a long time since I’ve seen you here.”

“Life has been a little unexpected lately.”

“Good things, I hope?”

Gibson could not help the smile that crossed his face. “Very good, yes. I was wondering what you might know about the merfolk?”

Irving frowned. “The merfolk?”

“Yes. I ask because…” he trailed off, not wanting to tell Irving about E.C or their meetings. “I thought I saw one the other day in the surf.” A half-truth, then.

“It must have been a porpoise or a whale,” Irving commented. “Or a very foolish man. Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular,” he lied. How did one ask about the relationships between men and those below? 

“Then do not think of the merfolk any more because they do not exist.”

“But I saw—.”

“Your eyes mislead you, Mr. Gibson,” Irving said. “God has granted us many things on this earth but not that.”

Gibson left him without a word.

*

“I wish I could take you on land,” Gibson remarked one evening as they lay curled together. The moon shone above them, giving E.C.’s scales a shimmering glow. Gibson did not know if he had ever seen anything more beautiful. E.C. laughed, his tail twitching gently against Gibson’s legs.

“You could, but you won’t want to do it.” He buried his face in Gibson’s neck and kissed the spot under his jaw.

“Why?”

“Because you have a soul, Billy. But I’m not human so I don’t. And to be human, I would need at least part of one.”

“Part of a soul?” He lifted E.C.’s chin so he could kiss his lips.

E.C. nodded. “With that I could walk on land, same as you.”

*

Lady Silence lived alone in a little cottage on the outskirts of town. She kept to herself, and apart from the occasional visits from Dr. Goodsir, whom many whispered she had bewitched, she received few guests unless they wanted something. A few speculated that she was a healer, more that she was a witch. Gibson did not particularly care for rumors, but if anyone could help him, Lady Silence could.

He pushed aside the animal skin that served as a doorway. She sat on the floor and looked up as if she had been expecting him. Glancing around for a chair, Gibson found none, so he settled down across from her, crossing his long legs. She held up a piece of string and began to weave it between her fingers like a cat’s cradle but far more complicated. Somehow, Gibson understood what she was saying.

_What do you lack?_

“I lack nothing,” he said. “But I want you to divide my soul in half.”

She dropped the string in her lap, her eyes wide with shock. She eyed Gibson closely, looking for any sign that he might be trying to deceive or play with her. Finding him earnest, she took up her string again.

_You do not want that. It is a dangerous thing, and once you divide your soul, you will never be whole again._

“I had guessed that,” Gibson said. “I know what I am doing.” He pushed a little bag towards her. “Here. It is not much, but it should pay for any inconvenience.”

She handed the bag back to him. _I do not want your money or trinkets, foolish man. If you are so determined, I will help you do what you ask._

She gave him a hot drink that tasted of sage, rosemary, and something else Gibson could not identify. Heart pounding, he followed her into a small room in the back of her cottage. It was completely dark, and Gibson stepped slowly to avoid tripping over anything. He needn’t have worried. There was nothing in the room except a large sculpture of a white bear with a flat face and an elongated neck. At Lady Silence’s command, he knelt before the thing, tipped his head back, and opened his mouth. It loomed over him, and Gibson saw its eyes, two black soulless pits staring back at him. “It will devour me,” he thought, yet he dared not move. There was a terrible pulling inside his chest. His vision blurred. He wanted to scream, yet he remained silent, still as the thing ripped him in half until the pain grew too great and Gibson fell into oblivion.

He awoke to the sight of Lady Silence’s keen eyes watching him. Immediately, she pressed a cup of another hot drink, this time smelling of lavender, into his hands. On the table beside her was a small bottle. At first it appeared to be empty, but looking closer, Gibson saw the light inside shift, like when the sun shone down on the wet rocks. He swallowed down a wave of nausea. How many men could say that they had seen their own soul?

Lady Silence handed him the bottle. _Take it, and do not come to me again._

*

“Is this...”

“Yes,” Gibson replied. 

E.C. held the bottle like it was the most precious thing in the world. “This was a dangerous thing, Billy.”

Gibson brushed his nose against E.C.’s temple. “I know. Do you still want this?”

E.C.’s smile silenced any concerns. “This will hurt. Hold me.” In one swift motion, he unstoppered the bottle and tipped it back into his mouth. His eyes widened, and he fell back, his body convulsing violently. Gibson grabbed him, pulled him tightly to his chest. He forced himself not to look down as he heard the sound of flesh tearing and cracking bones. Tears spilled from E.C.’s eyes, and Gibson leaned forward to cover his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his cheeks with light kisses. E.C.’s fingers dug through the wool of Gibson’s jacket, the nails biting into his skin. Still Gibson held on until finally E.C.’s grip eased, and his body went slack. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Well, Mr. Gibson? What do you see?”

In place of E.C.’s tail were two slim legs. Gibson ran his hands over his thighs and kissed him.

*

To his surprise, Gibson found E.C.’s new form amusing. True, he was still a delight to look at, but he was far shorter than Gibson had expected. Standing chest to chest, the top of E.C.’s head barely reached Gibson’s eyes, but their height difference allowed E.C. to tuck himself neatly under Gibson’s chin. His fascination with the village was also a joy to behold. E.C. had questions for everything, and what had once seemed mundane to Gibson now took on a new element of wonder as he saw the world through E.C.’s eyes.

E.C. seemed particularly enamored of the bed. Leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, Gibson watched as E.C. fluffed the pillow and bounced on the mattress. “It’s just a bed,” he said.

“Maybe, but I have never had a bed before,” E.C. said. “Besides, it’s your bed.” He drew one of the pillows to his nose. “It smells like you.”

That was all it took for Gibson to join him. He kissed E.C., softly at first, before E.C. ran his fingers through Gibson’s curls and pulled him so close their bodies melded against one another. Gibson tilted his head back as E.C. lavished attention on his neck until it grew too much, and he pulled E.C. down on top of him. He whispered instructions, expecting this to be hesitant and awkward, but E.C. was a quick learner, and soon Gibson was shuddering and breathless under his lover.

After, they lay curled together, Gibson’s head on E.C.’s chest. He heard the thump-thump of E.C.’s heart and knew his soul was nestled there underneath his ribs. His eyes traveled down, past E.C.'s hips to his legs and feet. How strange. There was no sign that E.C. had ever been anything but a man, no tiny fins, no stray scales. He was completely ordinary.

Suddenly, E.C. rose, fished something out of the pocket of his trousers (another thing he had found fascinating), and handed it to Gibson. It was a little booklet with the name Cornelius Hickey, age 26, Limerick written inside.

“In case anyone ever asked who I was,” E.C. explained. “That way you won’t have to go around calling me your cousin or something like.”

It was not a bad idea, Gibson had to admit. “Where did you get this?” People just didn’t give their personal papers away to whoever asked for them.

E.C. smiled. The dim light of the oil lamp caught in his white teeth, and Gibson thought they looked as sharp as they had when he was a merman. “Someone who didn’t need it anymore.”

*

People were disappearing. It was not noticeable at first, but as the weeks went by, the empty houses and closed stores became impossible to ignore. When the baker Mr. Wall vanished without a trace, the villagers began locking their doors and windows at night. They whispered of a monster that crept through the streets at night and snatched up stray souls. Some suspected Lady Silence responsible, though Dr. Goodsir insisted she had nothing to do with this new misfortune. Still, when a group of men marched out to question her, they found the cottage empty. 

Gibson kept an eye out for anything odd, but he had other things on his mind than the spate of disappearances. He and E.C. had settled into their lives quite easily. E.C. was a terrible worker who preferred to chat and tease Gibson than help with the laundry or mending. Still, Gibson liked his company, even if it had grown harder to support two on his meager salary. At least E.C.’s tastes had not changed much since he became human. Sometimes he talked about them going away together, off to some tropic island where they would not have to care for two men locked away in an old lighthouse. They would still be near the ocean, but there would be more sun and anything they could ever want. Gibson would nod, uncommitted. True, it did sound nice, but Gibson had a good thing here, and he was not going to give it up without reason.

“Maybe one day,” he said. E.C. grinned at that and set about distracting him from repairing Little’s shirt. Gibson let E.C.’s hands dip below his trousers and tried not to think about how his life had grown mundane once more.

He began to take long walks again, often alone. E.C. no longer asked the name of everything he saw and was content to let Gibson go. He wandered, aimless, until he found himself at Pastor Irving’s church, where the preacher was hammering a notice of a special sermon on the sign outside.

“Mr. Gibson, I was hoping to see you.”

“Were you?”

“Indeed.” Carefully, Irving set the hammer on the ground and approached him. “I have great fear of your new friend.”

Gibson frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I fear Mr. Hickey has designs on you. There is something odd about him. I cannot explain it, but I know he means no good. For your sake, please send him away. Or else you will both be lost.”

“I’ll think on it,” he said.

That night, when E.C. nuzzled Gibson’s neck and embraced him from behind, Gibson shifted away. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s on your mind, Billy?”

He toyed with the fringe on their blanket. It was not that Irving’s warning had struck such a harsh chord in Gibson’s mind. The man had a strange aversion to physical intimacy. But its timing was opportune. “Do you ever feel like we made a mistake?”

“That you made a mistake, you mean? Are you bored with me, Billy?”

“No,” he replied too quickly. He felt the slow rise and fall of E.C.’s chest as he sighed. “It’s just…you don’t have to stay here. You are your own man. You could go anywhere you want.”

“And what would you do? I have half of your soul.”

“That I gave willingly. It’s separate from me now.”

E.C. fell silent. He lay down, his legs stretched out. “It’s because I’m ordinary now, isn’t it? I’m just a man.”

“No, no,” Gibson insisted. “You wanted this.”

Something cold and dark passed over E.C.’s face. “You wanted this. This was your idea.”

“Maybe. But you put it in my head.”

E.C. shook his head. “Is that what you’re telling yourself, Billy? That I sang you sweet songs to convince you to bring me to your bed? Because everyone knows the songs of the merfolk are impossible for men to resist.”

“Oh go to hell,” he bit out. He rolled over on his side, not wanting to look at E.C. anymore that night. He felt the bed shift as E.C. rose, but when he turned back, his lover was gone.

*

He did not see E.C. the next morning, although his things were still there. Maybe E.C. had run off. He had little understanding of money apart from the fact that gold was valuable and the more one had, the better. Gibson would not have been surprised if E.C. had left with nothing but the clothes on his back. It was best not to worry. E.C. was clever. He could get whatever he wanted if he put his mind to it. 

Best not to think about last night, either, Gibson decided. 

He went about his day as usual. He made his delivery to Little and Hodgson, listened to Hodgson’s chatter (he would soon propose to the pianist’s daughter, and Little had struck up a friendship with the reclusive mayor’s servant, though the stern man would never admit to such a thing). Gibson tolerated Hodgson’s gossip more than usual today. He wanted to be out as long as possible and did not want to return to the empty house when the sting of his and E.C.’s separation was so fresh. The sky was darkening by the time Gibson set out, and night had fallen when he pushed open the door of his kitchen.

The basket fell to the floor.

Irving lay spread out on the table, chunks of his neck and chest ripped out. E.C. leaned over him, sharp teeth tearing through his flesh. Blood covered the walls and floor, and the scent sent bile surging into Gibson’s mouth. He retched. Looking up, E.C. grinned, his chin and hands red and wet.

“Hello Billy.”

Gibson could not tear his gaze away from Irving’s face, his eyes half closed and his head turned towards Gibson like an accusation. “What have you done?”

“I’m feeding,” he replied like the answer was intuitively obvious. As if to illustrate his point, he took another bite out of Irving's neck. “Are you surprised, Billy?”

“The people in the village?”

“I have to eat, Billy. Why are you surprised?” He frowned. “How is this different than you catching a chicken or a fish for dinner?”

His hands shook. His knees threatened to buckle underneath him. “Because those are animals. They are different species. You are human.”

“Am I?” E.C. hissed. 

“I gave you part of my soul.”

“And look what good it did. You won’t even look at me.”

“I didn’t know you would prey on people like a shark.”

E.C. stepped around the table, abandoning Irving’s half-devoured body. “Is that how you see me, Billy? Something between animal and man? Does it comfort you to see me solely as a creature, a pet you can indulge and keep but toss out as soon as it suits you?”

His temper flared. E.C.’s cutting words and Irving’s blood drying on his skin sickened Gibson. He grabbed the bucket of water tucked next to the stove for emergencies and threw it in E.C.’s face. The horrifying sound of flesh pulling and merging filled the room, and E.C. dropped to the floor. His reformed tail stretched out before him, flopping weakly like a beached fish. The empty bucket dropped from Gibson’s loose fingers. He fell to his knees, trying to get a hold of E.C., but he was shaking too violently. He ripped away E.C.’s clothes, now little more than rags. His skin was far too hot and had gone the gray of a corpse. 

“Get me to the water, Billy,” he gasped.

He struggled with the increased weight of E.C.’s tail, but he managed to put him in the little cart Billy used for large deliveries. After a moment’s thought, he dumped Irving in the cart as well, trying to ignore how the dead pastor’s blood had now stained his clothes and hands. He wheeled his burden to the shore. It was a moonless night, and he barely saw two feet in front of him, but the sound of the ocean lapping against the rocks was enough to guide him. As gently as he could, Gibson lifted E.C. up and waded into the water. He was nearly unconscious, his head lolling back against Gibson's arm. Briefly, Gibson wondered if he should have let the merman die in his kitchen. The thought of E.C. dead was too much to bear, and Gibson lowered him beneath the water and retreated to the shore. Grabbing Irving’s body, he dragged it to the rock, watching for any sign of E.C. Nothing. He tossed Irving in with a loud splash. The waves churned where the dead preacher fell, but it was too dark to see the frenzy below. Then, the water stilled.

*

Gibson cleaned the walls and floor of his kitchen until it stank of soap. The disappearances ceased, but no one voiced their suspicions about Mr. Gibson’s strange friend who appeared and vanished so suddenly. Life returned to normal for Gibson. He continued his errands twice a week, though he knew that his days working for the men were numbered. With Hodgson’s marriage approaching, he would be looking for a proper house for his new bride, perhaps in the city. Little had become quite taken with Crozier’s servant and was talking of retreating to some farm with him. Thomas Jopson had to be something truly special to make that faint smile cross Little’s lips.

Gibson’s own thoughts frequently traveled to the rock by the shore, though he refused to visit it. E.C. was alive; if he had died, Gibson was certain he would have known. He would have felt it. At night, he lay in his bed and ran his fingers over the place where E.C. had curled beside him. The space was small, but they had managed well. Quite well, he thought, remembering the way E.C. traced paths over Gibson’s body and followed them with his lips. He was better off alone, he told himself, with the ordinary day-to-day guiding his life, but those thoughts did little to ease the emptiness in his heart.

Eventually, Gibson could not resist any longer, and he found himself wading to the rock. He waited, staring out at the horizon, the chill of the ocean breeze cutting through him. Anyone else would give up, but he remained. Finally, a familiar pair of large blue eyes peered over the surface. The two stared at each other, Gibson not daring to speak, when a splash of cold water hit him in the face.

“E.C.,” he said.

“Hello Billy.”

*

They fell into the pattern of their old routine once more. Gibson visited every moment he could spare. He supposed he should feel guilty at relishing the company of the creature that had killed so many, but he found he could not bring himself to care. He had been foolish to think that E.C. would not obey his nature on land. It was like keeping a wild cat and expecting it to act like a kitten. Sooner or later it would obey his instincts.

To his surprise, E.C. began talking about life under the water more. Before, he had barely spoken of it, and Gibson had never thought to ask. He spun stories of underwater cities, the deep caves, and the dark depths filled with treasures that would make an emperor jealous. Gibson listened eagerly, asking questions about the strange creatures that seemed too fantastic to exist. His curiosity thrilled E.C. who wove such vivid descriptions that lingered in Gibson’s mind during the day and haunted his dreams at night.

One afternoon, they lay together, E.C.’s tail wrapped around his legs. E.C. had found the flower hidden in Gibson’s jacket pocket, half-forgotten from Hodgson’s wedding that morning. “It must have been something to see,” he said, playing with the petals. “I would have liked to attend a wedding.”

“I wish I could have taken you.”

E.C. shook his head. “Not anymore. I’m something apart now. Always tended to stay on the outskirts of my kind, and now they sense there’s something different about me.”

Gibson lowered his eyes, guilty at the memory of their fight. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush,” he whispered. “Don’t be, Billy. It happened.” He rested his head on Gibson’s shoulder. “Still, I would like to take you below.”

Gibson chuckled. “I’ll drown.”

E.C. sat up, his eyes oddly serious. “Not with this. Do you have a knife, Billy?” Gibson kept one in his pocket. It was small, a simple thing. E.C. eyed it carefully, running his thumb along the blade. Satisfied, he leaned forward.

“Don’t stop me. I love you, Billy.” He kissed him, delving into the wet heat of Gibson’s mouth before pulling away with a smile. Gibson watched as E.C. gripped his tongue between his fingers and began to cut. He lunged forward, but E.C. jerked away, blood and tears pouring down his face. Deeper and deeper the knife sliced until E.C held out his hand, his severed tongue laying in the center of his palm. With shaking fingers, Gibson picked it up and put it in his mouth. Everything in his body screamed for him to spit it out as the coppery taste overwhelmed him, but Gibson held on. He swallowed, gagging for breath. A twisting pain in his gut sent him doubling over. His insides felt like they had been dipped in ice water. E.C. wrapped his arms around him, his bloody fingers tangling in Gibson’s curls, and suddenly they were sinking, lower and lower until the surface swallowed them up.

Gibson kept his eyes closed as he felt E.C. pull him down. He inhaled, not caring if water poured into his lungs, but he did not cough or sputter. He opened his eyes to see E.C. in front of him, eyes luminous, his red hair floating around his head. Gibson reached out to hold him closer. E.C. smiled, his teeth sharp and white in the darkness.


End file.
